Meeting a Shipibo shaman

Since my first Ayahuasca journey—and the second and third—with the 'Tenerife tribe,' I've had the opportunity to sit with a Shipibo shaman and also experience Yagé Ayahuasca at a different retreat. I'm going to share these experiences with you.

Who are the Shipibo?

The Shipibo are the third largest indigenous group in Peruvian Amazonia. They have adapted their knowledge, culture, language, economic systems, and ecological practices in order to survive.

"Shipibo curanderos attune themselves to the high-frequency energies of plants and plant spirits, establishing a deep resonance that allows them to channel these potent energies into their patients. They understand that each plant has a unique spirit and vibrational essence, capable of influencing different levels of a person’s body, mind, and spirit. By connecting with these plant spirits, often through sacred icaros and ceremonial ayahuasca practices, they align themselves with the healing frequencies of the plant world. This alignment enables them to serve as conduits, guiding the plant energies to clear blockages, restore balance, and stimulate the body’s natural inclination toward harmony. This approach to healing transcends the physical and reaches into the energetic and spiritual realms, where plant spirits act as powerful allies, enhancing the healer’s intention and amplifying the effects of their work for profound transformation." ayahuascafoundation.org

What is Yagé?

Yagé is a different type of Ayahuasca, traditionally prepared by Colombia’s Indigenous Amazonian tribes. It tends to be milder in effect compared to Peruvian Ayahuasca and has a thicker, stickier texture—remarkably similar to creamed honey.

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The Shipibo-Konibo experience (November 2023)

When I first met Fidelia, the shaman lady, I wasn’t immediately impressed. Meeting someone from the Shipibo tribe had been a long-held dream of mine, and as the day approached, my excitement grew. I imagined I’d be starstruck, expecting a deeply spiritual presence—but when she greeted me in a Nike sweater and jeans, I had to quickly dismantle the pedestal I had placed her on. She was very sweet and smiley, reminding me of my late grandmother, and I truly enjoyed speaking with her, even if it was through a translator. During the day, she seemed just like an ordinary woman.

But when night fell, she transformed into the shaman I had envisioned from the beginning. For the ceremony, she changed into traditional Shipibo ceremonial clothing—beautifully embroidered and painted, complete with handmade beaded jewelry. She remained silent and focused as she prepared the space and the participants. The entire room held a deep, respectful silence during the hour-long ritual of smoke-blowing (she had hundreds of hand-rolled tobacco sticks laid out in front of her), water-spitting, and whispered prayers. We watched her with awe, as if we were at a Beyoncé concert, quietly preparing ourselves within as well.

Once the general preparations were complete, she began calling us one by one by name (how did she remember all our names?). She blew tobacco smoke over the top of our heads—goodbye, freshly washed hair—before handing us a cup of the Ayahuasca brew. With around 20 participants, it took a while for everyone to drink. And then, we waited. In silence. In pitch darkness.

The first shot didn’t have much effect on many of us, so we were offered a second cup. Soon after drinking it, I began to hear someone crying, and a few men started vomiting. In the pitch dark, I couldn’t see who they were, but I assumed they were men—their vomiting was loud and forceful, with an added guttural intensity that seemed uniquely masculine.

Each time someone began to purge, the two helpers would briefly spark a lighter to locate them and offer support—either through a cleansing ritual or simply by holding space. Just as I quietly told myself that I’d never be able to vomit with that kind of intensity, the urge suddenly hit me out of nowhere. I started vomiting violently—wave after wave—for what felt like twenty minutes or more, with only short pauses to gasp for air. One of the helpers appeared by my side almost immediately, spitting Florida water (Agua de Florida) in my direction and singing. That was the moment I got carried into the depths of the five-hour inner journey—one of deep cleansing, intense emotions, spiritual downloads, and complete detachment from my physical body. I could barely feel myself, let alone move or stand.

At some point during the ceremony, I began to feel intensely hot. When I closed my eyes, I had a vivid vision of a building engulfed in flames. At the same time, I felt a profound connection to Mother Earth—as if the planet itself was in danger, and I was burning with it. The sensation wasn’t just physical; it felt symbolic, like I was channeling the pain of something much greater than myself. Strikingly, just a short time before—on August 15th—a devastating forest fire had broken out on the island. Fueled by wind, intense heat, and low humidity, the fire led to mass evacuations and widespread destruction of the island’s flora and fauna.

A deep sadness washed over me, which gradually transformed into a blend of anger and fierce passion. As I sat in this emotional storm, I could hear others laughing, seemingly enjoying their journeys. I longed to be like them—light, joyful, and free—but in that moment, I was overwhelmed by something far heavier. I felt as though I had to process and clear not only my own pain and misery but also that of others—perhaps from my family line, a past life, or simply because I'm an empath who absorbs and feels things for those around me. I remember turning to my boyfriend, who remained largely unaffected by the medicine that night, and telling him, “I want to laugh too.” He gently reassured me, “Maybe tomorrow you will.” He took such tender care of me throughout the night, bless him.

As the ceremony neared its end, Fidelia began sitting in front of each participant, one by one, singing a personalized ikaro. I couldn’t wait for her to reach me. My soul longed to be seen, to be recognised. I just knew she would see me. I found myself growing impatient—I even changed my top and adjusted my hair as if I were preparing for a very special meeting (imagine Beyoncé singing just for you!). When she finally reached my boyfriend and me, she asked if we’d like separate songs or one together. We chose to share the song. As she sang, I quietly wept. The melody didn’t touch me deeply, and I couldn’t understand the words, yet I still felt moved—perhaps by the intimacy of the moment more than the song itself. A small part of me, though, regretted that I didn't receive a song just for myself. I felt like it was my moment and somehow it didn't fully feel right to share it.

As the ceremony came to an end, Fidelia and the helpers quietly moved to their rooms to rest. Those of us who were beginning to sober up slowly started to move—some left the ceremonial space to step outside into the garden, while others made their way to the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. The night sky was breathtaking. Even with the lingering feeling of a massive hangover, I was completely mesmerized. The constellations appeared closer and more vivid than I had ever seen with the naked eye. We began telling one another, “Go outside and look at the stars—they're beautiful.”

On the second night, I threw up the medicine early and just rested on the floor. After the deep cleansing of the previous night, this felt like a rinse. My body didn't call for another round of Ayahuasca, and I listened to it. I stayed sober and clear instead to hold space for my boyfriend, who was still struggling to be affected by the medicine. At one point, Fidelia sat down in front of him and guided him through an intense, hour-long personalized ritual. She made him smoke a lot of tobacco, which he despised but obeyed, as part of her effort to break the spell he was under. She said his soul was trapped behind a thick concrete wall, the same wall I had seen in him during our private Ayahuasca ceremony two months earlier—now confirmed by Fidelia.

The ritual was exhausting for him. For both of them, actually. He was on the verge of passing out from the energetic intensity. Fidelia, too, became physically affected, eventually vomiting from the purge of emotions my boyfriend could not express. Maybe if the two of us—Fidelia and I—had worked together, we could have been stronger, but in the moment, I didn’t think of that. I didn’t want to interrupt her work. I simply stayed by his side, being up all night, feeling it was the least I could do after how tenderly he cared for me the night before.

The effort drained Fidelia completely. She didn’t sing afterward; instead, she lay down in silence, and for the rest of the night, we remained without her healing presence. I wrapped my arms around my boyfriend as he tried to get some rest, but neither of us could fall asleep. He was drenched in sweat and smelled like a chimney from all the tobacco.

In her closing song in which she included everyone, she referred to my boyfriend as "black magic," and to me as a "light being" (ser de luz). You can hear her sing about me in the clip below.

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Yagé experience

A year later, I came across a post about a one-night Yagé Ayahuasca retreat. It appeared at a time when I was repeatedly falling ill—fever, sore throat, body aches—likely due to a virus I’d picked up at the school where I had recently started working. I happened to be just well enough to attend, so I dragged myself up the hill after the bus dropped me at the nearest stop to the ceremony site.

We were a small group—no more than ten people, including the shaman, his assistant, and a woman who sang healing songs at the end of the night. The shaman himself sang the same chant over and over throughout the night, pausing only for short breaks of silence. The Yagé was thick in texture, really like creamed honey, and I couldn’t get it down without the help of water.

The effects came on slowly, leading into a “nothing special” experience—more like feeling slightly drunk or extremely tired, the kind of tired where all you want to do is sleep but you can’t. At one point during the night, I had a vision of my ex appearing in front of me. I began washing him with soap from head to toe—something I interpreted as a symbolic act of cleaning his sins away, whatever they might be (negative emotions, harmful actions toward me, towards himself, or others, etc.). It was something between our souls. Then not long after that, I went outside to vomit.

The only moment I felt close to sleep was when the singing finally stopped and the room fell into silence, just before sunrise. But as soon as I began to drift off, the shaman came back into the room and loudly announced the start of the closing ceremony. I felt frustrated and deeply annoyed—I just wanted to rest. I couldn’t understand why we weren’t allowed to sleep. Or if not now, then when?

It was around 8 a.m., full daylight outside, when everyone was asked to get up and sit in chairs so the shaman could begin singing the same song again and carry out his cleansing ritual. I didn’t join the closing ceremony. I was emotionally and physically exhausted, on the verge of tears. My frustration wasn’t just from that morning—it had been building over days of poor sleep and stress from work.

I decided to leave early and try to rest in my own bed instead. When I walked into the kitchen to make tea, I saw two large supermarket bags filled with groceries. I hoped that wasn’t what they planned to serve for breakfast. Other Ayahuasca ceremonies I’d attended were much more thoughtfully organized—serving wholesome, homemade vegetarian meals and beautifully arranged fruit platters. I was surprised and disappointed that I had paid €150 only to be offered supermarket food I could have bought myself.

By 9 a.m., breakfast still hadn’t been prepared, and the participants were still being kept awake for cleansing. That’s when I quietly left, feeling dissatisfied and disheartened. I don’t know if the others eventually got to sleep, but I kept wondering—if they did, when did they eat? And how were they supposed to travel home safely after a night with no rest?

Closing lines

This is simply my personal experience. It’s not meant to serve as a universal truth about Yagé ceremonies or a judgment toward Colombia’s Indigenous Amazonian tribes. I respect their traditions—this was just my individual journey and how I lived it.

Thank you for reading.

Until next time ♡